


Sentimental Tendencies

by bananaquit



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Fluff, M/M, fiddauthor - Freeform, portal-era fiddauthor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-12
Updated: 2017-07-12
Packaged: 2018-12-01 07:33:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11481627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bananaquit/pseuds/bananaquit
Summary: Two scientists on a camping trip enjoy a night of reminiscing, music, and sappy poetry from years far past.





	Sentimental Tendencies

**Author's Note:**

> i love connecting and reusing themes, so the poem is actually from my rp blogs and "space oddity" will also appear in an upcoming fic ;)

The night was dark and cloudy, only a few stars peeking through. It was a bit cool for July, but the campfire was more than enough to keep the pair of aspiring scientists warm. The scent of pine hung in the air, obscured by the smell of ash from the bonfire. The trees that surrounded the clearing where the two sat loomed above them like friendly skyscrapers, silhouetted branches extended toward the sky like open arms.

Stanford adjusted his glasses and glanced at his assistant. Fiddleford smirked and grabbed his banjo from where it was resting behind the log he sat on. Ford rolled his eyes, playfully folding his arms.

"Is it necessary to bring that on every camping trip we take?" he asked.

"Do we have to have this conversation every time, Stanford?" Fiddleford replied, giving an equally sarcastic eye roll. "Maybe instead of complaining, you could just shut your whiny little trap and let me play."

"This is the one time I'll let you play past eight." Ford said with a small huff. His fake frown widened into a small smile as his friend struck up a chord. He laced his fingers together on his lap, content to simply listen. Fiddleford grinned at him. Ford hadn’t recognized the tune before, but as soon as Fidds opened his mouth and began to sing, it clicked.

“Ground control to Major Tom…”

Now, Stanford had heard him sing before, it just wasn’t a common occurrence. Fiddleford’s voice was, well… not great. Not that it was terrible. Just a bit nasal, perhaps. Still, as long as Fiddleford was enjoying himself, Stanford didn’t mind. He remembered their off-key sing-alongs in their college dorm fondly. “Space Oddity” had always been a favorite. He layered his own voice on top of Fiddleford’s and stood with a smile that betrayed his entertainment.

“Ground control to Major Tom!” he practically belted, spinning dramatically and tugging Fiddleford to his feet as well. “Take your protein pills on put your helmet on…” Stanford mimed putting on an invisible helmet, which earned a laugh from Fiddleford. “Ground control to Major Tom. Commencing countdown, engines on.”

Fiddleford began counting softly as Ford sang. “5… 4… 3... 2… 1…”

“Check ignition, and may God’s love be with you…”

“ _Liftoff-_ ”

Now their voices mingled in a poor, off-pitch harmony as they both sang, Fiddleford taking the high part and Stanford the low. “This is ground control to Major Tom. You’ve really made the grade! And the papers are all asking whose shirts you wear. Now it’s time to leave the capsule if you dare.” Ford began circling the fire, dancing aimlessly around as he sung. Fiddleford skipped after him.

He let Ford sing the next verse, giggling as Ford made dramatic gestures to accompany the lyrics. “This is Major Tom to ground control. I’m stepping through the door… and I’m floating in the most peculiar way… and the stars look very different today!” he sung theatrically, putting goofy enunciation on odd syllables and acting like a broadway performer.

They tried their lame attempt at harmonization again. “For here I am, sitting in a tin can far above the world. Planet Earth is blue and there’s nothing I can do…”

Fiddleford cranked out a banjo solo that earned a thunderous applause from Ford before they both fell back into the tall grass side by side and laughed until their sides hurt and their stomachs had started to tie themselves in knots.

“Nothin’ beats Bowie. ‘Cept maybe John Denver.” Fiddleford spoke after catching his breath and wiping the tears from his eyes. Stanford gave him a playful slap. Fiddleford tossed his banjo to the side and adjusted his position in the grass a little. Ford watched his gaze move behind them before Fiddleford got to his feet and motioned for him to follow. Ford complied, curious to see what had caught his friend’s attention.

They padded maybe a hundred feet back into the woods until they came to an open clearing surrounded by the towering pines. It was slightly brighter than the woods that encircled them because of the break in the canopy. The campfire was still visible through the trees, but the crackling of the embers was inaudible from here, replaced instead by the light breeze. Ford stopped and looked expectantly at Fiddleford.

“Well? What’s your aim in bringing me here?” Ford inquired, folding his arms.

“Nothing. I just thought it might be pretty over here, I wanted to come and get a look.”

Ford watched him as he examined the area in silence for a few moments. “Satisfied?”

“Mmm… no.” Fiddleford suddenly took him by the hand and pulled him against him. He placed one hand and Ford’s hip and twined the fingers of his other hand with Ford’s, savoring the familiar feeling of Stanford’s six digits against his five. He took a step and Ford instinctively followed suit until Fiddleford had him slowly waltzing without even realizing it.

Ford raised a brow, catching onto his partner’s scheme. “What are you doing?”

“I’m dancing with you.” Fiddleford replied matter-of-factly, smirking. Neither one of them stopped or complained. They just kept moving slowly, driven by old habit. “It’s been a while.”

“We’re slow dancing in the middle of a moonlit clearing in the forest… with no music?”

Fiddleford leaned in close to Stanford as they swayed gently. “We can make our own music, sweetheart.”

Ford let out an amused chuckle. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Fiddleford just began to sing softly. “You are my sunshine, my only sunshine…” Ford rolled his eyes, but let him continue. “You make me happy when skies are gray. You’ll never know, dear, how much I love you. Please don’t take my sunshine away.”

Ford couldn’t help but laugh out loud. “”You Are My Sunshine”? It’s the middle of the night.”

“It was stuck in my head, alright? Time of day you sing it at doesn’t matter, anyway.”

“It’s just an ironic song to sing, given the cicumsta-”

“Will you just hush up? I was enjoying myself.”

“But the lyrics are so _childish_.”

“Then why don’t you come up with your own?”

“I couldn’t do _that_. I never understood poetry.”

“That’s a lie and you know it.” Fiddleford teased. “‘Ya made the mistake of leaving your notebook open once back in college… and _boy,_  did I get an eyeful.”

Ford stepped back from him, his eyes suddenly widening with horror as his body tensed. “What did you see!?”

Fiddleford placed a hand on his shoulder to calm him, knowing that Ford was a bit finicky around the issue of trust. “It was just one poem, I wasn’t gonna go invading your privacy.” Ford visibly relaxed. “Remember that night I got all tipsy ‘n asked you to slow dance? Think it was about that.”

Ford groaned. “Tesla… not that one.”

“Ford, it was… beautiful.” Fiddleford placed his hands where they had been resting earlier. “Was the sweetest, nicest thing I’d ever read. I copied it down and memorized every line. I couldn’t stop thinkin’ about it for _weeks_.”

Ford just let out an awkward laugh and looked away as Fiddleford continued to guide him in slow loops around the clearing, bodies moving together effortlessly, having long ago learned to work around the big, clumsy feet.

“Dancing.” Ford stiffened as Fiddleford spoke.

“It's easy, oddly effortless, the act of letting go. My doubt, my fear, it disappears. The lights are warm and low.” Memories come flooding back to Ford as Fiddleford recited the poem he’d written in a lovesick haze years ago. “I am clumsy, I am awkward, but when you take my hand, everything seems natural. I’m so glad you understand.” Stanford squeezed his eyes shut, cringing at the reminder of his own sappiness. “Before now, I could only sing when I knew I was alone. With you, I can do anything. To me, you feel like home.” Fiddleford just kept going.

“It’s mindless, really, purposeless, the ways in which we move, but I would spend eternity dancing here with you. Never felt so giddy, never felt so free, never been so glad to have my head spinning and spinning.” He was shocked at how perfectly Fiddleford recited each line. Even he himself had forgotten with time, but Fiddleford seemed to know every word like the back of his hand. “There is a certain pleasure in being unable to think. Strange to be so comfortable with all I do not know. There must be an explanation as to why I feel this way. I don't want to say the word aloud, but I don't know what else to say.”

Fiddleford paused and smiled at him. “What was the word?”

“Love. The word was love.” Ford admitted through gritted teeth.

“I _knew_ it! I knew it, ‘ya big sap!” Fiddleford pushed a hand playfully against his chest.

Ford grinned sheepishly. “Yes, I suppose I do have some... sentimental tendencies.”

“Alright then, Mr. Poet. Time for your brilliant rewrite of “You Are My Sunshine”.”

Ford gave yet another eyeroll. “I was never good at improvising.”

“Try.”

Ford leaned closer to him, looking into his eyes as he began to sing softly. “You are the moonbeams, the wondrous moonbeams. A stellar beauty, a lunar smile. Your eyes are astral, your soul is cosmic… and you make my whole life worthwhile.”

Fiddleford thought he was melting then, but Ford just kept going. “You are the starlight, the precious starlight. You’re there to guide me when I’m astray… and in the darkness, you’re my direction. I’m so glad you showed me the way.”

“And you came up with that right now?” Fiddleford asked incredulously. Ford gave a nervous nod in reply. “I have never in my life been more attracted to you, Stanford Pines.” Fiddleford pulled him into a long, deep kiss, slow and passionate.

Ford laughed as he drew back. “And now we’re making out under the stars. Is there no end to the cliché?”

“Not with you. “Romance is a mystery”, huh?”

Ford snickered. “I seduce strictly fictional wizards and brilliant hillbillies.”

“That’s fair. Now let’s head back to the campfire, it’s gettin’ chilly out here.”

Ford removed his trenchcoat and set it on Fiddleford’s shoulders. Fidds slipped into it and smiled at him. The two joined hands as they walked back to the campfire and sat back down on a log. Fiddleford leaned against his partner. “Still smells like our dorm room.” he murmured as he sniffed the fabric.

Ford wrapped an arm around him and smiled. “Yes, well, there’s a lot we kept around from college.”


End file.
